


And I'll be Loving You

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Content, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-10 00:09:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4369652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weddings always put Aramis into that "wedding mood".</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I'll be Loving You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> Written for a prompt from JL that requested portamis being the most ridiculous schmoops at Constance & d'Artagnan's weddings, involving lots of fluffy dancing and making eyes at each other during the ceremony, etc. THIS IS UNREPENTANT FLUFF. Nothing more, nothing less. Enjoy.

“You’re not getting it,” Constance says and her patience is wearing thin – d’Artagnan is signaling behind her shoulder that the three of them should really start to cooperate. Aramis doesn’t think they’re being that difficult – Porthos is mostly just eating, Athos is staring into his empty coffee cup and wishing it were wine, and Aramis is being _nothing_ short of exceptionally helpful. She must sense d’Artagnan’s wide-eyed, bared teeth open gaping behind her, though, because she whips her head around and glares at him. “Oh, don’t you start pretending I’m being unreasonable.” 

“Of course not,” d’Artagnan says, an automatic gesture – and really, Aramis knows Constance hasn’t been unreasonable at all for most of this. The stereotype of the rambling, banshee bride-to-be is living up to mostly be hearsay, as Constance has been, relatively speaking, rather lowkey about the whole wedding planning. All things considered, d’Artagnan has been the fussy one about certain details. Constance just wants to get married. But d’Artagnan is the one talking about how it’ll just _look weird_ if Constance invites more guests than him, or if they have more than one cake, or whatever it is. Aramis finds it endearing that he cares so much to make his and Constance’s day exceptional, but Constance is finding it progressively more tiresome. On this, though, there are hiccups. 

“I’m serious about this,” Constance says. “I want Athos to walk me down the aisle.” 

“But he’s my Best Man,” d’Artagnan reminds her, for possibly the fifth time in the last twenty minutes. He gestures to Athos who, really, isn’t participating in this conversation at all, instead mulling over the beginnings of Constance and d’Artagnan’s seating chart. It’ll be a small wedding, only close friends and family, but it’s proven to be quite the headache for the young couple the closer and closer they get to the date. At least according to d’Artagnan – who simply might not want to have to deal with Constance’s many older brothers for a prolonged period of time. 

“I’ve known Athos longer,” Constance tuts. “We were friends long before you ever came into the picture.” 

She jabs at him, good-natured, and the two of them needle each other in the way only soon-to-be-wed couples can be. Aramis helps himself to some more cake samples and watches the proceedings unfold. He wrinkles his nose as he bites into an almond cake that’s overly sweet and hears Porthos chuckle beside him. 

“So let me walk you,” Aramis volunteers once he swallows down the cake. 

Constance scoffs, as if Aramis has told the most hilarious joke in the world and she’s trying not to laugh at it. Or laugh right in his face. She at least has some consideration for Aramis’ pride, it seems. “That’s not going to happen.” 

Aramis pouts and drags his fork over the icing on the leftover almond cake on his plate. “So I’ll be d’Artagnan’s Best Man! Problem solved.”

“That’s not going to happen,” d’Artagnan says, deadpan.

Just as Athos says, “No.” 

“And what’s wrong with having me as the walker _or_ the Best Man? I’d excel in both!” Aramis says, partially scandalized just for show and also part of him being genuinely so. He turns to Porthos for support. “Right?” 

Porthos smiles at him, genial, where he’s busy cutting up his chocolate cake into smaller pieces – trying the darker cocoa mix for Constance’s benefit rather than any real desire to eat something sweet. Porthos doesn’t really like sugar. 

“You’d be a very handsome Best Man,” he offers. Porthos, saint that he is, always knows how to prop Aramis’ ego back up and he feels his chest swell despite himself. 

“That’s beside the point,” Constance says, which is neither denial nor affirmation so Aramis will take what he can get and assume she agrees he’d be handsome. “Aramis, you are a lovely friend but Athos and I have known each other since before university.” 

Aramis knows this all, of course, and thus waves his hand in acceptance. He can’t exactly blame her for that. 

“But he’s my best friend!” d’Artagnan says, and manages to sound perfectly petulant about it. He even huffs up, not unlike a frustrated bird. 

“You wound us,” Aramis says, slinging one arm around Porthos’ shoulders and batting his eyes at d’Artagnan. “You can at least wait until Porthos and I are out of the room to crush our feelings so.” 

Porthos snorts while d’Artagnan looks temporarily unsure if Aramis is serious before he remembers it’s Aramis of all people. And then he rolls his eyes and says, “I’m sure you’ll both find solace in each other.” 

“Here’s a solution,” Aramis offers. “Have Porthos walk Constance down the aisle, I’ll be d’Artagnan’s Best Man, and Athos can officiate.” Athos looks up to give him a withering stare. That particular look stopped working on making Aramis feel embarrassed or ashamed since about the third year of university ten years ago, so he hardly reacts and instead grins at the young couple to be. “Well, I’d offer myself, but we all know I’ll just be making eyes at Porthos the whole time, and no one wants a would-be priest doing that.” 

“I do,” Porthos says with a lopsided grin and really, everyone should appreciate Aramis’ ability to resist leaning in and kissing him soundly on the mouth just for that. He partly doesn’t simply because he knows Porthos would laugh and then complain about the taste of overly sweet almond cake – that sickly taste won’t leave Aramis’ mouth even now. He might need coffee. 

“Then why would I want my Best Man doing that, instead?” d’Artagnan teases and then sighs out and slumps down into the seat beside Constance, tugging the seating chart over from Athos’ attentions. He frowns down at it as his other arm wraps up around Constance’s shoulders, unselfconscious. She leans into the touch. He traces little lattice patterns along her bare shoulder and upper arm, fiddling with the strap of her tank top absently. 

“You could walk yourself down the aisle,” Porthos offers after a thoughtful moment and it’s such a quintessential Porthos suggestion that Aramis just wants to kiss him again. He settles for shifting closer to him and placing his hand on his thigh under the table, sliding it down to his knee and squeezing. Porthos grins at him.

Constance purses her lips – the look she gets when she thinks she’s heard a good idea and wishes she’d thought of it herself. Meanwhile, d’Artagnan starts doodling in the margins of the seating chart and Athos gets up to go get everyone more coffee. 

“This is ridiculous,” Constance decides. “This really can’t be the thing we’re going to fight about.” 

“Why can’t he be both again?” d’Artagnan asks. 

“Because it’d look silly,” Constance says, throwing her hand up in the air. “What, the Best Man isn’t going to be there with you at the end of the aisle and instead walk me down? Or, he walks down with the Maid of Honor and then turns around to come get me? It won’t work!” 

Porthos and Aramis exchange a look. Porthos shrugs – but then, Porthos was never one for getting stuffy about these things, even the simplest of weddings can get him to start crying. Aramis traces his thumb along his knee absently, smiling indulgently at him and leaning over to snag a piece of his chocolate cake. It’s much better than the almond cake. 

“You’ll think of something,” Porthos says, perfectly genuine because he is a sweetheart. This time Aramis does lean in and kiss him. 

 

-

 

The actual day of the wedding, Aramis is helping hang up fairy lights around the chapel. It’s an intimate little thing – quiet, endearing, and just a few blocks away from Athos’ old family mansion where the reception will be held. He’s up on the ladder making sure he’s hooking the lights in a way that will keep them from, well, falling – but he’s distracted watching Porthos place little jars of flowers at the end of each pew lining the aisle. 

Aramis gives a low wolf-whistle and a sleazy, “I wouldn’t mind you filling up my jar.”

Porthos snorts out a laugh before looking up at him. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Aramis kicks his foot out. “It means you’re too handsome for words.” 

“Don’t fall off the ladder, you fool.” 

“I am perfectly secure,” Aramis dismisses, planting his feet a little more firmly on the ladder just to demonstrate his point, and loops the fairy lights around the eave. “And you’d find a way to catch me, anyway.”

“Hmmm.” 

“Don’t place any of those flowers out of order or you’ll have d’Artagnan swooping in to correct you.”

“I can take him,” Porthos says with a grin.

“I don’t know,” Aramis teases, “You can’t stop a man when he’s determined about his wedding.”

“Guess so,” Porthos agrees, finishing placing the last little jar and standing, brushing off his hands and heading over towards Aramis. Aramis goes a little quiet, watching Porthos walk down the aisle towards him, grinning, sleeves rolled up and the top few buttons of his shirt undone and – really, it is totally unfair for him to be so attractive. Aramis utterly refuses to defile a chapel, much less one that’s likely to have Constance swaning in to murder him soon after for not finishing the lights and also crumpling up her altar. But the temptation is there when Porthos smiles wider at him. 

Porthos reaches out to hold the ladder steady, looking up at Aramis. “Stop giving me The Stare.” 

“There is no such thing,” Aramis sniffs, dismisses the phantom image of Porthos walking down an aisle, a groom, smiling and light and gentle, coming down that aisle to him, to their life together – it’s never once come up between them, never in seriousness. Aramis tends to shy away from the idea, terrified of what Porthos’ reaction might be. It’s better to just be happy for Constance and d’Artagnan, not think about what ifs on his part. Knowing himself, he’d manage to screw it all up anyway. 

Porthos holds the ladder steady for him until Aramis finishes up, and he slides down the ladder and into his arms. He grins at Porthos, curls his arms around his neck, and tugs him in, kissing him slow and gentle, leaning back against the ladder so that Porthos can press all his weight against him. 

“We have to get ready soon,” Porthos whispers, once they break apart. It’s both warning and invitation. 

Aramis sighs, pressing their foreheads together and smiling a little as he traces his fingertips along the exposed vee of Porthos’ shirt, tugging on his necklace and brushing at his chest hair. Really, Porthos has no right being so attractive. 

“I know,” Aramis says with a sigh. “You know how I get with weddings.” 

“Hmm, sure do,” Porthos agrees, leans in, kisses him gently again, nibbling at his bottom lip in the way he knows Aramis likes. Aramis whines out a little. He can’t help it – he especially can’t help it today. Aramis loves Constance and d’Artagnan – he’s happy for them. And Aramis loves love. He loves weddings, even if he knows it could never really be for him. Not really. 

“Alright, alright,” Aramis sighs out when they break apart. “Let’s go get ready. I want to dress you up.” 

Porthos takes one last look around the chapel, to make sure everything they were meant to get done was done, and then he grins, takes Aramis’ hand, and tugs him along towards the basement rooms, where the wedding party is getting ready before the guests start arriving. 

 

-

 

In the end, Constance and d’Artagnan walk down the aisle together, arm in arm, approaching the wedding party with matching smiles – although d’Artagnan’s turns progressively watery with each step. Porthos is already teary-eyed just from watching the doors open behind the guests, watches d’Artagnan and Constance see each other for the first time and approach one another at the apex of the aisle before turning to walk it down together. Aramis can _hear_ Porthos sniffling already, and it makes his own chest twist up. He isn’t one for crying – that was always Porthos, far more able to tune into his emotions – but he can’t help but smile, wide and unrestrained, watching them walk down together towards their future together. It’s a beautiful thing. They deserve that. 

Of course, once the actual ceremony gets underway, Aramis focuses in on far more important things. Like Porthos in a tuxedo. He smiles at him, knows his eyes are all hot and seductive, which always manages to make Porthos snort out in pleased embarrassment when they’re in public, and then return the gesture. They’re staring at each other, and Aramis is half-listening to the proceedings but at the same time all he wants to do is reach out and get his hands all over Porthos. He’s sure Constance would disapprove if Aramis and Porthos started making out right beside her and her soon-to-be-husband. 

And then Constance starts reading her vows and that’s distracting enough that Porthos turns his head to watch them, getting emotional again. Aramis moves closer to him and takes his hand. Their fingers curl up together and Porthos smiles a little, a quiet and wobbly little thing. His eyes are glassy, warm and inviting. He really is the most amazing man and friend. Aramis, who’s known Porthos for longer than he hasn’t known him, finds himself falling more in love with him – always surprised whenever it’s possible for him to do so. When Constance declares d’Artagnan her best friend, someone she loves to spend every moment with, admires his bravery and his brashness, his kindness and his strength, even his foolishness and stubbornness, Aramis feels Porthos squeeze his hand. 

When d’Artagnan reads his vows to Constance in turn, praises her strength, her fortitude, her patience, her ability to put up with him – or to put her foot down when she really can’t – Aramis squeezes Porthos’ hand in turn, swipes his thumb over his knuckles.

Aramis reaches out to cup Porthos’ cheek and wipe away the tear there when d’Artagnan and Constance kiss and run down the aisle together, married, happy, and laughing together. _Together_. Aramis isn’t watching them leave, instead looking up at Porthos, expression soft. 

“I love you,” Aramis says, because it feels an appropriate thing to say now, in this, stuck in a little chapel together and emotional for their friend’s happiness.

Porthos smiles at him, leans into the touch.

 

-

 

The reception is a loud, happy affair filled with old friends and old jokes, laughter and teasing. Constance and d’Artagnan are in a world all their own, and Athos’ Best Man speech is surprisingly saccharine, at least by his usual standards (he mentions eternal happiness in perfect seriousness about half-way through his speech and Aramis nearly chokes on his wine in his surprise), which is just a testament to his and d’Artagnan’s bond that Athos can actually believe such things. There’s plenty of alcohol to go around and Aramis is already feeling buzzed, happy and light. Floaty. 

The party is just underway which, naturally, as less-important members of the wedding party, means that Aramis is grabbing Porthos hand and dragging him away as soon as Porthos sets down his finished drink. He doesn’t even bother to offer excuses, and it isn’t as if Porthos doesn’t know what he wants and needs. He does hear d’Artagnan go _where are they go – oh._ before Aramis is tugging Porthos down one of the main halls of Athos’ rather expansive family mansion – honestly, how loaded was his family? – and turning to the nearest door they come across. It’s a small little room, something like a butler’s pantry, but it serves its purpose. Aramis turns on the light, closes the door, and pushes Porthos up against it – he’ll serve better than a lock, which this room lacks. When Porthos is leaning against something, totally into sex, not even an earthquake can move him until he comes. 

“Aramis,” Porthos begins, but they both know it’s hardly any kind of true scolding. 

Aramis lays his hands upon Porthos’ hips and leans up, kissing him. “You’re perfect.”

“And what brought this on?” Porthos asks, laughing around the kisses. 

“You’ll always cry at a wedding, you’ll always get so emotional and happy for them, and you’ll _always_ look so devastatingly handsome in a suit.” It should be a crime, except then Aramis would just break the law daily. There are worse fates. 

He’s fumbling with Porthos’ trousers – attractive though he is in a tuxedo, they aren’t exactly the easiest things to shed. Porthos reaches out and tugs off his bowtie for him. Aramis swallows down happily, suddenly able to breathe – he can’t stand ties or bowties, and yet Porthos always looks overwhelmingly striking in them. Aramis pulls open and tugs at the zipper to Porthos’ trousers. 

“You look far too good in a suit,” Aramis whispers. “Do you have any idea?” 

“A bit of one,” Porthos says with a crooked little smile that melts away to a small gasp when Aramis slips his hand underneath his underwear and wraps his hand around Porthos’ cock. He gives it a few quick tugs and strokes, coaxing him to harden. “Fuck.” 

“That’s the idea,” Aramis agrees, laughing, leans in and kisses him again and again. “Think you can be quiet even if I’ve got my mouth on you? Or should we be as loud as we please and damn the consequences?” 

“Fuck,” Porthos says, quieter this time, and bucks his hips forward. He’s thickening up against his hand and Aramis smiles to himself. He tugs Porthos’ trousers and underwear down, slides his hand up along his cock, thumb circling along the tip. 

Aramis drops down to his knees, stroking over Porthos’ cock. Porthos makes a muffled sound and leans back heavily against the door, rolling his hips forward in expectation. 

“Patience,” he coos out and licks at the head of his cock, swirls it around and then wraps his lips around the cockhead and licks at the underside. 

They’re both drunk, both just fooling around, so despite Aramis’ tease for patience, they’re both fast and awkward, fumbling around in the ill-lit room and grabbing at one another. Aramis’ knees start to hurt about two minutes in. He tries to shift around, press in deeper, swallow Porthos down completely – Porthos is large, but if he gets the right angle and is relaxed enough, he can usually deepthroat him well enough – and that’s always a sure way to get Porthos to come on him. That’s always his favorite part. But then again, the tux is a rental so probably getting come on it is a bad idea. 

Instead, he just bobs his head, moaning out around his cock, moving as enthusiastically as he can despite his aching knees. Porthos’ hands drop into his hair and twist up the way he likes and it makes him whine out as he licks his tongue along the underside of his cock. 

Aramis tips his chin up a bit as he suckles at the cockhead, looking up at Porthos – who meets his eyes with a huffing laugh, breathless and moaning, his sounds desperate as he tugs at his hair. “Fuck, you’re so pretty.”

Aramis whines out, happy, suckling around him and swallows him down, humming out. 

Porthos mumbles out a quiet warning, as he always does, tugs on his hair lightly as he always does, but just as always, Aramis doesn’t pull away and instead drinks Porthos down when he comes across his tongue. Aramis moans loudly, bobs his head, swallows around him until Porthos is spent. 

“Come here,” Porthos whispers out once Aramis drags away from his cock, licks him one last time before tucking him back into his clothes, trying to do up the zipper and button with shaking hands. Porthos’ fingers are all twisted up in his hair. “Aramis…”

“Don’t get me dirty, please,” Aramis whispers out, scrambling to his feet and resting heavily against Porthos, kissing him long and slow. Porthos kisses him deep, pulling the taste of himself from Aramis’ tongue, and Aramis shudders happily, hard and throbbing against Porthos’ hip. He rocks his hips forward, ruts against him. 

“Hey,” Porthos whispers out, bites at his lip. “Slow down. I’ve got you.” 

He turns them, presses Aramis to the wall, and sinks down to his knees instead. He works at undoing him, his hands large and wobbly from coming so recently, but manages to get his hand around Aramis’ cock and strokes him off easily. He gets the angle right, swallowing down around Aramis and sucking around him until Aramis comes with a muffled shout. If he weren’t drunk and shaking from adrenaline and desire, he might be embarrassed by how little time it takes – but then, Porthos has always had that influence on him. He’ll make it up to him later, hours from now – he’ll lay Porthos out and take his time, drive him wild with impatience and love. 

Once they’re both somewhat presentable, (after struggling to get his tie back on, they both give up and giggle about it) they return to the ballroom hand-in-hand, Aramis grinning and utterly unashamed. He knows he’s flushed. He’s lacking his tie. His hair is definitely in a ‘just fucked’ disarray and he can’t even _care_. Athos gives them a look that suggests he wants more wine to deal with this, but Constance and d’Artagnan are too wrapped up in each other to care much about what Porthos and Aramis got up to. 

Aramis grins at Porthos, face flushed and bright, and tugs Porthos onto the dance floor. 

 

-

 

It’s hours later, and they’re still dancing. Guests have long since gone home and they’ve cycled through _Constance and d’Artagnan’s Amazing Wedding Mix Courtesy of Aramis, Honorary Best Man_ playlist about four times and a half so far and there’s no signs of stopping from the two of them. 

They’re swaying in place on the dance floor. The night is ebbing away and he’s tired – bone-tired, so tired – and yet he doesn’t want to stop dancing like this. His hand is pressed to Porthos’ chest, above his heart, Porthos’ hand wrapped around his as they sway in time to the music, Aramis’ head tucked up underneath Porthos’ chin. 

“How are you two still standing?” Athos says around a yawn when they sway a little too close towards the edge of the dance floor and where he’s helping stack chairs. “Aren’t your feet going to fall off?” 

“Shh, don’t interrupt them,” Constance says, shooing him along. She spins along the dance floor with d’Artagnan, smiling at her new husband, her eyes bright. “I think it’s sweet.” 

“We’re adorable,” Aramis agrees, pillowing his cheek against Porthos’ laughing chest just to feel the hum of his breath against his ear. It makes him melt every time. 

“ _My_ feet hurt, though,” d’Artagnan admits, dipping Constance and smiling at her, completely soppy – which is a rather endearing and cute look on d’Artagnan, really. 

“You two will have to stop soon,” Constance relents after a few moments of swaying with d’Artagnan. “We’re going to head up soon and we have an early start in the morning.” 

“And it’s three in the morning,” Athos reminds them, looking like he’s been sleeping on his feet for the last two hours at least. 

“Hmm,” Aramis hums out, not listening now in favor of melting into Porthos. “Just one last song.” 

Athos rolls his eyes and goes clean up some discarded cups and plates. Constance and d’Artagnan finish out the song and then sleepily say goodnight to Porthos and Aramis. Porthos waves them away and then places his hand back on the small of Aramis’ back. Such a small gesture shouldn’t make Aramis shiver. 

The ‘one last song’ ends and the next one begins. 

“One last one,” Aramis says again, and Porthos laughs softly – tired like he is, slow on his feet, but unwilling to let him go.

“I could dance with you forever,” Porthos says, and from anyone else it’d be too cheesy to bear, but from Porthos it just makes Aramis want to smile like a fool and hold him to that promise. 

It’s a quiet night. Eventually, even Athos leaves – with instructions that they’ll have to turn the computer off themselves and stumble around in the dark. Aramis isn’t fully confident that they’ll be able to find their way to their assigned room, but he also doesn’t care enough to worry about it, not when he can just focus on being in Porthos’ arms. The room is so quiet, just them and the music, the little lights twinkling above their heads. The grand ballroom’s doors are open wide to the humid summer air, and Aramis can see the stars just beyond. 

He sighs out, content for all the world. 

Weddings always make him like this – believe in eternal love, believe in everlasting affection and devotion. He’s certainly been with Porthos for more years than he’d like to admit lest he reveal his true age, but their time together stretches far beyond d’Artagnan, far beyond Constance, far beyond Athos, and university, and high school, even primary school. Porthos still remembers him with uneven teeth and an even more uneven hairstyle, feet too big for him and bony, awkward little hands. Aramis still remembers Porthos with missing teeth and braces, and anger issues and a broken nose, and poorly shaved beards. They remember so much about each other, and when he’s at weddings like this, he thinks, perhaps, it might even last longer than that. If he’s willing to believe it. 

Which is probably why he takes a deep breath and asks what he asks next. 

“Do you want to get married?” Aramis whispers out, quiet, hushed – unsure what he wants the answer to be, terrified of what the answer will be.

Porthos doesn’t stop dancing, but he does suck in a sharp breath and then let it out in a small rush. “Do you?”

Aramis fans his fingers out across his chest and bites his lip. “Sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” 

“Other times I’m afraid of asking,” Aramis admits, because when he’s drunk and dancing and thick with his love of weddings, he can at least be honest – heavy with his love for this man, this wonderful man he’s known almost all his life. “What about you?” 

“I’d marry you,” Porthos whispers, “in a heartbeat. A thousand times over.” 

Aramis pulls back enough to look up at him, blinking. “Then why haven’t you?”

Porthos gives him a crooked little smile. “Because I don’t know if it’s what you want.” 

“Well fuck that,” Aramis gasps out, grins at him, sloppy and drunk and unsure – but his insides twisting up with happiness. “I’d marry you in a heartbeat, too. Let’s get married.”

Porthos laughs, too, and dips Aramis. “What, right now?”

“No time like the present,” Aramis agrees, laughing, almost hysterical with his relief, with his surprise. He starts looking around for something they can use as a makeshift rings, but is too drunk and tired to carry out the mission, especially if it requires leaving Porthos’ side. He sways a bit. He clings tight to Porthos when he rights him again. He leans in and kisses him, desperately, whining out against Porthos’ smile. 

Porthos keeps dancing, romantic fool that he is, and when they draw back from the kiss, his eyes are suspiciously misty in the dim light. Aramis lifts his hand to cup his cheek, traces his thumb there absently, his touch reverent and gentle. 

Once the song ends, Aramis leans up and kisses him again and whispers, “I hope I remember this in the morning.” 

Porthos’ smile is gentle, disbelieving, but warm. “I’ll make sure you do.” 

 

-

 

Eventually, even their exhaustion wins out – or, more, Aramis keeps kissing Porthos until the dancing grows too troublesome in the face of potentially getting naked and spending the rest of the late night-early morning time period with certain activities. That, and the sun is starting to rise – the entire ballroom turns a strange, milky grey color, that strange inbetween light of night and morning. It’s just as well. He still needs to make up for earlier in the butler’s pantry. They stumble their way through the half-dark to their room for the night, giggling stupidly and stepping on toes. 

There’s an aborted attempt to get Porthos’ bowtie off and keep kissing him, but they end up a giggling, tumbling mess onto the bed, instead. 

There’s an attempt to keep kissing, an attempt to get naked, to get wrapped up in each other – but their kisses are tired and sweet, affectionate, delirious in happiness and that strange wedding bliss that always takes Aramis over – and it’s not long before they just curl up into each other and start snoring. It doesn’t even matter they forgot to close the curtains – the streaming summer sunshine does little to stir them. 

And then they sleep past the time they’re meant to get up and wave goodbye to the happy newlyweds. It’s just as well, since Constance and d’Artagnan miss the goodbye waving, too, opting to sleep the whole day through their exhaustion. Aramis and Porthos don’t stir at all until well into the afternoon. 

And when they do wake up, they remember. And they go from there.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/).


End file.
